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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762156">I wouldn't ask you (to take care of me)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/calamaris/pseuds/comedy-witch'>comedy-witch (calamaris)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Bullying, Canonical Character Death, Drama, F/M, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, High School, Humor, Pre-Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:21:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,408</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762156</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/calamaris/pseuds/comedy-witch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth of the matter is never easy to find, and you were never one to look. But when Barbara Holland briefly extends you a helping hand and then goes missing, you get a glimpse into what it means to sow connection.<br/>So when you go to the Byers to borrow a flashlight and things turn south, you stay and risk it. Even if it’s to help a guy like Steve Harrington. </p>
<p>On being strangers, on understanding, and on empathy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Harrington/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1983</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Wednesdays you don't have time to run to your locker, and so you’re forced to carry art supplies all morning. You keep your elbows in, drawing your books and drawing pads up tight to your chest. But Tommy Hagan always finds a way to make grabbing your belongings funny. You don’t know what you did to earn their ire but they keep at it. Every Wednesday like clockwork, he passes you after history with Carol Perkins and Steve Harrington in tow.</p><p>Maybe you looked at one of them the wrong way, maybe you looked too engrossed in your own world. Maybe your hatred of Carol was too obvious in your eyes. You try to find a reason – you try to correct whatever is making them announce you like you need to be stared at. But that’s the thing about high school, there is no justification. People are shitty to be shitty. You’re bottom rung because they chose it. And when Wednesday rolls around, you hold your textbooks a little looser. And when they clatter to the ground, you do nothing but kneel down and pick them up. Because what else is there to do?</p><p>One Wednesday in particular, Carol is the one to tug on your belongings as she walks by. Your pencil case clatters to the floor with such an impact that the plastic hinge breaks and your art supplies scatters on the linoleum.</p><p>You look over your shoulder where she continues on her path, Tommy’s arm around her, his shoulders pulled up to his ears in giddy amusement. They don’t look back.</p><p>But Steve Harrington does. You know he knows you – you both live in near enough proximity to have seen each other outside of school.</p><p>People are passing you without any mind, and Steve is still watching you. But eventually he looks away, and so do you.</p><p>You’re going to be late.</p><p>Everyone settles into their third period quicker than you, and the hallways clear. You’re almost done stacking your textbooks when a shadow stretches out in front of you.</p><p>“It gets old eventually, you know.” they say, and you look up to see Barbara Holland. She holds out your broken pencil case, open and waiting for you to drop your supplies inside. When you oblige, she closes it, albeit crookedly and hands it back to you with a smile.</p><p>You stare down at your belongings, stacked neatly on the floor. “Does it?”</p><p>“It was me last year.” she admits.</p><p>You don’t remember, even when you try. “I didn’t know.”</p><p>She smiles again, a bit sadder, but with sympathy. “You didn’t see.”</p><p>You wish you had. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s okay.” she looks down at the tile, and then up at you. “Nancy helped me, and now I’m helping you.”</p><p>Her best friend Nancy Wheeler. You shared an English class with her, so you knew how brilliant she was. You know now that she is also kind.</p><p>“It shouldn’t be anybody.” you pick up your textbooks in one big heap and adjust them in your arms.</p><p>Barbara stands too, and then sighs. “Yeah, well,” the sentence is never finished, but you understand what she wants to say. <em>It doesn’t work that way. It’s never going to work that way.</em></p><p>“Thanks for not just walking away.” you say. Because it sucks enough to have your shit torn from your hands, let alone everyone watching you and not doing anything about it.</p><p>“That would certainly be easier.” she tries for levity and it works – just enough.</p><p>“I’ll see you around.” you smile and she smiles back, the both of you retreating to your separate classes.</p><p> </p><p>Barb is right.</p><p>Eventually.</p><p>Because when the seasons get colder, the harassment is less frequent. You never get the chance to talk to her again, to tell her she was right. You’re lost in the monotony of school, the lure of quiet habit pulling you away from ever really saying anything. You pass each other in the halls and smile, but you don’t know how to offer the olive branch when your only interaction was one of simple kindness.</p><p>And so Halloween comes and goes, with November quick on its heels. When you finally gain the resolve to say something, you see Barbara in the halls with Nancy on Monday. But you hesitate, because talking to them are Steve, Tommy, and Carol.</p><p>And when Tommy and Carol glance in your direction, they say nothing. Their eyes sweep past you like paint on the wall. Whatever inside joke your presence had provided isn’t funny anymore. Another bell rings, signalling the imminent beginning of classes. You hesitate, wanting to say something because you’re <em>ready</em>. But this isn’t the first thing to slip through your fingers, and so you let it. You let Barb and Nancy go.</p><p> </p><p>And then you don’t see Barbara again.</p><p> </p><p>Nancy and Steve start dating. Tommy and Carol pick someone else to harass.</p><p>And you wonder what’s changed – what you could’ve asked Barb if only you’d been a little quicker. And maybe you’ll never completely forget it, however insignificant it is in the grand scheme of things. Barb holding that pencil case. There are other friends, there are other people. This type of incessant nagging in your mind never truly goes away.</p><p>But it gets quieter.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong><em>NOVEMBER </em>1984</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>You’re reading at your desk when the lights flicker. And not just a little, but a frantic oscillation between light and dark that almost leaves your head spinning. It’s bound to be another power surge – something more common in houses that are built on Hawkins outskirts. You walk into the kitchen and living room, pulling some of the higher wattage appliances off the outlets in case the spike gets worse and then you try calling your dad at work. The power shorts out again before he answers, and you lose your patience. It’s not nearly late enough to give up and go to bed, but you don’t want to sit in the dark, bored out of your skull.</p><p>There aren’t many houses out here but there <em>are </em>a few – and Joyce Byers’ place comes to mind first. You’d borrowed a camping lantern from her before, when you were trying to study for exams and the lights kept going nuts. So you kick on your sneakers and leave a note for your parents on the kitchen counter. Your eyes glance over at the tin of cookies your dad made for Halloween and shove them into your backpack – <em>some </em>method of thanks for the help would be better than coming over empty handed. Even if she could only let you borrow it for a bit. You pull on a scarf and a jacket and lock up the house, hopping onto your bike.</p><p>It’s not a very long bike ride to the Byers’ place, but the air is cool and makes your cheeks feel like they’re tingling. When you pull into their driveway, you notice some faces peek out the window, and then disappear.</p><p>You walk under the eave of the front door and knock twice. It sometimes takes Joyce a minute to open the door, so you back away a step and begin to check your watch. But there isn’t a moment’s hesitation – as if whoever was answering had been waiting for you in front of the door before you’d even gotten there. The door swings open, and your lips part in stunned silence.</p><p>Not Joyce, or Jonathan, or Will – but Steve Harrington.</p><p>“Uh,” you’re trying to find a word, <em>any </em>word aside from a stuttered particle. You have nothing. You are absolutely lost.</p><p>“Hey.” he says, and you’re aware he looks just as confused, though he shifts on his feet and leans his elbow on the doorjamb, a bit more casual but still out of place. He definitely recognizes you, he’s seen your face before -- but you can tell he<em> absolutely</em> doesn’t know you.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” you ask, because it’s a fair question.</p><p>“I’m babysitting.”</p><p>“Jonathan Byers’ little brother?” you question. Things must’ve desperately changed since you last saw him because anyone with eyes knows they <em>don’t </em>get along.</p><p>“Yeah, uh, Joyce called me.”</p><p>He’s full of shit, and you cross your arms over your chest. “Joyce Byers called <em>you</em>.”</p><p>“Jesus you don’t have to say it like <em>that,</em>”</p><p>“Yes I do, because that sounds like a lie.” you counter. Steve Harrington babysitting Will Byers, you’d sooner believe the world was ending.</p><p>“Hey, what’s it to you anyways,” Steve asks, becoming defensive. “Why are <em>you </em>here?”</p><p>He’s right, it really doesn’t matter. It’s none of your business who he babysits or lies about babysitting. You let out a sharp sigh. “I wanted to borrow Joyce’s camping lantern.”</p><p>“Camping lantern? What?” he shifts his gaze and there must be someone next to him, hidden behind the door because he spends an awful long time looking to his left. It isn’t discreet.</p><p>“Earth to Harrington?” you ask, and he looks back to you in a hurry.</p><p>“Oh yeah, camping lantern. Sure. Stay here.” and then he shuts the door in your face.</p><p>Your mouth hangs agape. You’d be naïve to say you hadn’t ever wondered what he was like, you only knew the bare minimum. But now you didn’t need to find out – two minutes in and your blood was nearly boiling.</p><p>You unpack the cookies from your bag while you wait, and glance back over to the window. Again, you see heads peeking through the window only to quickly retreat.</p><p>The door opens again and Steve is holding the camping lantern. “Here.” he says, holding it out.</p><p>He’s about to close the door again but you shove the cookies into his gut.</p><p>“Oof, what the <em>hell,” </em>he starts, grabbing at the tin, but you interrupt him.</p><p>“Before you close the door on my <em>nose </em>again. They’re for Joyce. Tell her thanks for me.” it takes considerable effort to hold back the vitriol in your voice. You shove the lantern into your bag and zip it shut, so fed up with Steve fucking Harrington you’re nearly ready to throttle him. You turn to walk out from under the eave and retreat home but an engine revving and a pair of headlights coming down the driveway blinds you.</p><p>Was it really so convenient that Joyce was coming home at that moment?</p><p>You realize belatedly that the door hadn’t been shut behind you, because someone yanks hard on your backpack and pulls you into the Byer house.</p><p>When you turn, Steve is facing you, and holds his arm above your head to reach behind and close the front door.</p><p>“<em>Harrington,”</em> you start, and then your gaze shifts, your anger pulling back as you realize who else is in the house. Nancy’s little brother… you can’t remember his name, and two of Will’s other friends. And a girl you had only briefly seek skateboarding away from Billy Hargrove – his little sister.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” you say instead. It seems you’re stuck between either total confusion or incense tonight.</p><p>There’s a palpable moment where you realize there’s something here that’s going on that is much bigger than you. Too big to be explained just by looking at the clues. Billy was here, and these kids clearly weren’t supposed to be. Steve didn’t pull you into the house to piss you off, he pulled you in to hide you.</p><p>You look back to Steve. “So, just babysitting.”</p><p>“Just babysitting.” he says back. It’s a lie. He knows you know it.</p><p>You look to the kids and then back to him, “But not Will.”</p><p>“Not Will.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes, “Alright Sherlock, you don’t have to look so satisfied.” Steve shoves the tin of cookies into one of the kid's hands - curly hair and a baseball cap - and goes to unlock the door.</p><p>“What’re you doing?” you ask, because now you’re worried. Really worried. Because that’s Billy Hargrove. Steve may have made you angry, but at least he didn’t scare you.</p><p>“Handling it.” he says, ushering you away from the door and going outside.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Steve doesn’t handle it. In fact, it’s the furthest thing from handled. And by the time it’s over, you’re the only person in the house over the age of thirteen who’s still cognizant. They have plans to leave and you should go back home, but now you’re in it. Now you can’t walk away without implicating yourself as the biggest asshole to ever walk the earth.</p><p>So you get the others to help you haul Steve into the back of the car and you let Max drive, but on the condition that she<em> listen </em>to your instructions.</p><p>“Max, turn on your headlights.”</p><p>“Where’s it?” she asks.</p><p>“It’s above the ignition switch. Where you put the keys in.” you instruct, and Lucas leans over to point it out for her, following your pointer finger.</p><p>“Got it.”</p><p>“Great, Lucas you good with the map?”</p><p>“Yep, we’re good to go.”</p><p>“Okay, oh – Mike, Steve isn’t sitting on you, is he?”</p><p>“No, m’ good.”</p><p>“Great. Seatbelts, folks.”</p><p>The kids chime their affirmative before you give the okay, and let Max take off.</p><p>All this for a storm lamp.</p><p>Five minutes in, the kids finally ask you your name, and you realize what a hellish ride the last half hour has been. The only reason you knew anyone’s name was because they’d been yelling at each other.</p><p>“How do you know Steve?” Dustin asks.</p><p>“School.” your reply sounds short, like you don’t want to talk about it. And it’s <em>true, </em>but you’ve quickly realized how much these kids pick up on.</p><p>“Wow, that bad huh?” Lucas looks back to you during a lull of directing Max.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Didn’t seem like you two were friends.” Mike clarifies.</p><p>You look down at Steve, whose splayed out horizontally across you, Mike, and Dustin in the backseat. You’re holding a bag of Birds Eye frozen mixed vegetables to his temple, his butt stuffed vertically between yours and Mike’s. It’s not ideal position for someone recovering from possibly severe head trauma, but it’s also not the worst.</p><p>“We weren’t.” you admit. It’s the truth – and at the rate you’re going, you need to give a little honesty to get some in return. “I think we said all of maybe three words to each other. If that.”</p><p>“You know he lives nearby, right?” Mike asks. He looks over at Dustin and then to Lucas. “We’ve biked past the Harrington’s place, right?”</p><p>“Like, twice. They’re at the other end of the road,” Lucas says. “That place is usually abandoned.”</p><p>“What do you mean abandoned?” you ask.</p><p>“No one’s ever home.” Dustin clarifies. “Lights are always off.”</p><p>You don’t know what to do with this – this <em>thing </em>you’ve discovered. It feels like you’re breaking some rule, some rule that says you can’t find out more about this person that’s currently unconscious in your lap. Because then you start to understand him.</p><p>“Max can you see out your rear-view mirror?” you ask, instead of inquiring. Why are the Harringtons never home? You shouldn’t know. It’s easier this way.</p><p>“Yeah, we’re clear.” Max says.</p><p>You feel the car jostle when she pushes the accelerator pedal.       </p><p>“Try to ease your foot off the gas, okay?” you try to make it so that your voice indicates you’re on her side – you’re not antagonizing her while she’s in the driver’s seat.</p><p>And she does, Max eases up.         </p><p>“Got it.”</p><p>“You’re doing great.” you say, and you catch a glimpse of a little smile.</p><p>“Wow, you should teach all of us how to drive.” Dustin pipes up.</p><p>“Yeah Dustin! I definitely want to go to jail.”</p><p>You feel Steve move in your lap, and then he’s grunting, trying to sit up.</p><p>“Harrington, don’t move.” you push him back down with Mike’s help.</p><p>“Whass happenin’,” his voice comes out muffled, trying to talk around the swelling in his face.</p><p>Steve is bigger than you, and presumably stronger, but in this instant he feels like a wet noodle in your lap. When you pull him down, he stays down, incapable of holding his weight against any force at all.</p><p>“We’re almost there.” Lucas says, “Turn here,” he points for Max, and you can feel the panic sink into Steve’s body when he realizes you’re the one holding him down and not driving the car. But you’d coached Max well, and the drive is over before Steve can lose his mind in the backseat. The kids pile out of the car and open up the trunk.</p><p>“Why would you –” he struggles to look at you, dumbfounded. “Why would you agree to this?”</p><p>“If I would’ve disagreed, do you really think they would’ve listened? If I had gone home, wouldn’t they have done it anyway?” you ask. He doesn’t answer, too exhausted. You take the bag of vegetables off his face.       </p><p>“Swelling is down,” you offer.</p><p>Steve closes his eyes, there’s a pinched line forming between his eyebrows. “Can you uh, help me up?”</p><p>You’re a bit surprised at the question but you help him wordlessly, leaning him up so he can pull himself out of the car.</p><p>You sigh, and then lean into the front seat to turn off the ignition. When you step out, the kids are already walking into a massive tunnel that leads underground.</p><p>“Alright, stay here.” he says, pulling on a pair of goggles.</p><p>“You’re joking.”</p><p>“Do I look like I’m joking?”</p><p>“I can’t tell, your face looks a little mushy at the moment.”</p><p>You can see his arms hesitate, as if he’s going to wipe his face in exhaustion but it looks too painful to touch, and so he stops.</p><p>“I’m serious.”</p><p>“So am I.” you counter.</p><p>Steve steps up to you, hands in gloves. “Listen to me.”</p><p>“No, <em>you </em>listen to <em>me, </em>Harrington.” you say, brushing his hands aside. “I’m babysitting.”</p><p>There’s a pause, and he’s blinking rapidly, you can see him trying to wrestle with a smile. It makes you feel…<em>feel – </em></p><p>“Hey! Come on dinguses! We don’t have all night!” Dustin calls after you.</p><p>Steve reaches into the trunk and pulls out another pair of goggles. “You stay <em>close</em>.” he says.</p><p>“Alright Watson.” you grab the goggles and pull your scarf up around your nose.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Oh,” you raise your eyebrows and look away, taking out the campfire lantern from your backpack. “<em>Wow</em>.”</p><p>“No, I <em>know </em>who Watson is, I just fail to see the connection –”</p><p>And for the first time this evening, you don’t force down a smile.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong><em>DECEMBER </em>1984</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>There are things you still don’t understand, even after seeing them yourself. You try and concentrate, try and pay attention to the events as they unfold in the tunnels, but you walk away from it feeling like it happened in a dream. Like you’re in a moving car and all you see is the landscape zipping by, too fast to focus on.</p><p>It’s only after you spend a few days thinking about what happened that you realize the magnitude of what’s going on beneath your feet.</p><p>A week after the cleanup crew comes to close the lab, Joyce calls you and asks you to come over. She sits you down at her dining room table and you sign document after document with Dr. Owens. Chief Hopper watches you with a gaze you don’t understand. You don’t understand any of it, you just know you can’t talk about it. After Owens leaves, you stand on Joyce’s front door and then pull out the storm lantern you borrowed, handing it to her in a daze. There’s nothing she can say, but she still reaches out anyway, and gives your shoulder a squeeze. There’s an inkling of comfort in everyone looking at you like they know how it feels.</p><p>The more you’re told you can’t talk, the more you need answers. The more you wonder if Hawkins has always been like this, but you’ve been too ignorant to see it. If you open the box, there’s another box inside of it, and another inside of that one. It’s a constant chase into something, something, <em>something. </em>And you wonder if it’s worth figuring out if you have to keep glancing over your shoulder.</p><p>After returning home, you sit across from your parents at the dinner table and feed them half truths – things even you don’t believe. Things you know will appease them only as much as it appeases you. You’re distancing yourself from the people you care about for the sake of what? Lies that are for nothing – that serve no one.</p><p>So you make a choice.</p><p>You walk away knowing you won’t be able to put away the dots you’ve connected. You can’t just let them sit there like stars, aligned but never united. Because that nagging feeling you’d gotten over a year ago was back again<em>. </em>It felt like the day after Barb handed you back your pencil case. It was a ticking that pressed and prodded at the memories still stuck in your mind.</p><p>You needed to know that the feeling wasn’t for nothing.</p><hr/><p>You don’t expect Nancy to be home.</p><p>It feels like a repetition of that night at the Byers. You’re scared to knock. Because you’ve been dancing around asking the only person left who could really help. You’d been afraid because Barb was gone and for <em>so long </em>you did nothing but stay silent. The night in the tunnels taught you differently: the night you fought for the truth. And so you keep going.</p><p>“You sat next to the window, right?” Nancy asks, sitting on her bed. She had invited you up, offered you tea. When you’d sat next to her on the bed, one leg hanging off the edge, you were struck that you’d truly missed out on this friendship because you were too scared of Tommy and Carol. Always afraid.</p><p>“In English?” she asks.</p><p>“Yeah.” you hold the mug in your hands. You look across the bedroom wall, eyes falling to the wardrobe with photos. Nancy follows your gaze and her expression falters.</p><p>It’s quiet, it’s <em>awkward.</em></p><p>“Barb mentioned you.” she admits, and when you look at Nancy, her eyes are on her tea. “I remember. It was only once, but then I noticed it was you who Tommy and Carol had been harassing in the halls.”</p><p>“I only talked to her once.” you say, “But it stuck. She kinda pulled me out of the monotony for a minute, reminded me I’m allowed to be upset.”</p><p>“You still are. What they did was awful.”</p><p>“Yeah, but I guess it’s over now isn’t it?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Thanks for not just walking away.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>You look to her, finally. “Nancy…”</p><p>She looks back from the photos and you feel your voice waver, feel it hitch. “What happened?”</p><p>Nancy looks down and away. “I’m assuming Dr. Owens talked to you.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“So you know I can’t tell you.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That would certainly be easier.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Nancy’s face brightens at your honesty. She almost laughs, but she looks too close to tears.</p><p>“I’ve been…” you close your eyes, and then glance up at her again. “such a coward. All high school, y’know? I never stood up, I just let it happen. And kept letting it happen.” you wipe your eye. “I just wanted to know…because she was a good person and I should’ve tried. Harder. With you, too.”</p><p>Nancy grabs your hand, squeezing it in her own. The thin bandage wrapped around her palm feels rough against your skin. There’s a long pause between the two of you.</p><p>“I heard you went into the tunnels with Mike and the others.” she says. She can’t tell you everything but she can ask you about what you know.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“And you saw what was down there.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>She leans back, “Then that’s it.”</p><p>“Then it…” you pause, voice hovering under a whisper. “It was a monster?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>You think of the monster’s mouth, blooming open like a flower, a Venus flytrap about to snap and tear. You feel your throat constrict, your fear growing in your stomach like a seed cracking it’s shell for the sprout.</p><p>It’s panic. You’re panicking. The reality of what Nancy is saying is hitting you, the violence of it all. The urge to run makes you feel sick to your stomach, the tendrils of the sprout growing and growing —</p><p>“And…” you choke the words out, you have to do this. Because you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t. “she’s gone?”</p><p>“Yes.” A tear falls down Nancy’s cheek. She knows your fear, she knows it because she feels it too. “She’s gone.”</p><p>You take her mug and set it aside and you hug her, you hug Nancy Wheeler. You hug this person you barely know, who has been burdened by the biggest loss of her life and unable to share the truth with anyone. She’s been alone, and so have you. And it’s a small comfort, you know. You didn’t know Barb like Nancy did, but you know how unfair it is that she’s gone. A good person gone for nothing. Nancy hugs you back, sniffles trailing off in the silence, her body shaking as if it’s bursting. As if she’s held it all in for too long and suddenly it is too much.</p><hr/><p>The funeral happens only a few days later, and when the cause of death isn’t what Nancy said it was, you know you’re doing the right thing. You’re helping the right people.  </p><p>Barbara’s mom can barely stand during the proceedings, the weight of her grief practically pulling her to her knees. And you are a kettle forgotten on the burner, boiling and boiling and boiling, your pain and anger like a low whistle at the end of the spout. Escaping, but not nearly enough to be noticed.</p><p>You don’t speak to anyone after the ceremony. You trudge across the grass of the cemetery, earth still soft despite the lateness of the season. And then you see Steve leaning on a nearby tree, a respectful distance from the funeral proceedings but dressed like he was going to be part of it. His face looks better than when you’d seen it last.</p><p>“Hey.” You offer a chance at conversation, however short.</p><p>He takes in a big breath, letting it leave his body slowly, as if he’s deflating. There’s only a tiny scar left of a split lip.</p><p>You peer back at the people retreating from the burial site. Jonathan and Nancy are returning to his car, his arm wound around her as if he’s the only one keeping her upright.</p><p>You look back to Steve, worried he’s still raw from a broken heart. But to your surprise, he’s watching Barb’s parents.</p><p>“My dad drained the pool yesterday.”</p><p>You frown in confusion, “What?”</p><p>To your surprise, Steve scans the area like he’s nervous someone is listening. “Last place she was ever seen alive was at my house. With her feet dipped in the water.” He looks at you, eyes with a fear you’d never seen before. An expression you thought impossible for someone like Steve.</p><p>When you don’t say anything, the silence gets thicker in the air. He’s scared because people might be listening, but not just that — Steve is still traumatized from her disappearance. Even if he’s never shown it. And he continues, even though he looks like he doesn’t want to.</p><p>“Everyone else went inside but she didn’t.” He looks down at his feet, a hand coming out of his pocket to run through his hair.</p><p>“And the thing is, I didn’t care. I probably still don’t — not nearly as much as I should.”</p><p>“Steve.” Your voice finds a way out suddenly, <em>forcefully,</em> taking you both off guard. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t care.”</p><p>“Maybe.” He looks down. “Or maybe I’m just trying to clear my conscience. Maybe I’m just worried about me.”</p><p>“That isn’t true.” You counter, “Grieving isn’t always screaming and crying, sometimes it’s pretending it didn’t happen at all.” You know because that’s been you – that’s been <em>you. </em>And if all Steve turned out to be was a self-centred asshole, you would have found out much sooner than now. He wouldn’t have pulled you into the Byers’ house when Billy was coming into the driveway. He wouldn’t have let you follow them into the tunnels. He wouldn’t have grabbed you and pulled you against him to protect you from the monsters while they stampeded past.</p><p>Now you know him. Maybe better than you both realize.</p><p>Steve doesn’t answer, he just keeps his eyes on the ground.</p><p>So you take his hand in yours. Steve tilts his head up, clearly not expecting it. You admit, your grip comes off a little strong – especially considering this is probably the third time you’ve ever touched him before.</p><p>But the tension leaves his shoulders. He looks at you like he might smile, but it never fully forms. There’s too much heaviness here, in your hearts. Still, he doesn’t let go.</p><p>“How’d you get here, anyway?” he asks.</p><p>“My dad dropped me off before he went to work.”</p><p>“What, no more wintertime bike rides?” he jokes. It was only a month ago you were having a heated argument with him on your neighbour’s doorstep, bickering about a camping lantern and bruising his gut with your cookie tin. And now he’s twining his fingers in yours, familiar through shared trauma.</p><p>You clench your teeth together, suddenly remembering that you forgot to tell him. “Billy trashed my bike.”</p><p>Steve’s brows pull together in confusion. “What?”</p><p>“Yeah,” your free hand rests at your side, fingers tapping on the side of your leg. “Joyce found it in a heap in the ditch, and a pretty rude note taped to her door that she didn’t want to repeat. Guess he wasn’t happy we tranquilized him and took his car.”</p><p>Steve groans, rubbing his eyes with his pointer finger and thumb.</p><p>You need to sound convincing, because this has upset him more than you thought it would, “It could’ve been worse. Could’ve been Joyce’s house instead of my bike. Or my face.” Steve swears under his breath, pushing himself off the tree trunk he’d been leaning on.</p><p>Your fingers untangle and you touch his arm to get his attention instead, the action is too easy now. It’s so easy to touch him that it makes your stomach jump funny. “Hey, what are you thinking?”</p><p>“I’m thinking someone should trash Billy’s stupid fucking car.” he says.</p><p>“Oh <em>no. </em>I am not holding a bag of frozen vegetables to your face again.”</p><p>He looks surprised but not hurt by the callback, “Hey, c’mon. That’s not fair.”</p><p>“No it isn’t, but Billy is <em>relentless</em>. I’d rather he just take it out on my bike and be done with it.”</p><p>He raises his hands in challenge, “You never know, maybe I’d win this time.”</p><p>“Steve.” you shake your head. You stare him down. “I can’t watch him hit you like that again. Especially now.” When he just raises an eyebrow at you like a question, you tilt your head and give him a <em>look. </em>“You <em>know </em>why.”</p><p>“I don’t.”</p><p>Even if Steve is pulling your leg, you have to be honest. “Because I care about you a lot. So try and humor me – don’t get beat up.”</p><p>He hums in thought, and you see a smile threaten the corners of his mouth.</p><p>You shove him, enough that he falls back against the tree trunk behind him, and he laughs a little. But the reprieve from the tension reminds you that you’ve spent an awful long time talking to him.</p><p>You check your watch, “<em>Shit,</em> I really need to catch the next bus.”</p><p>“What? No, I’ll drive you home.” he says, jingling the keys in his pocket. He makes his way down the slope that leads to the tree.</p><p>“What?” you call after him.</p><p>He turns, walking backwards toward the pathway that connects to the parking lot, “You know, with my car?” he makes the steering wheel motion with both hands. “The thing with the engine.”</p><p>He’s grinning like a smartass when you catch up to him. You push on his arm and he pushes back, and then he surprises you – he pulls. He takes your hand in his and gives you a smile, the usual line between his eyebrows has smoothed out. And the sadness of the day is still there – the regret.</p><p>But it’s a start.</p>
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